Monday, 31 December 2012

Highlight of 2012 was undoubtedly
West Ham beating Blackpool 2-1 at Wembley. I was
with all my West Ham faithful, the only exception being my good mate John from
Canning Town who was elsewhere busying himself with studying Law in his last
year in Paris; always thought law was a wise subject to study for a man who
heralds from a place known to some as the City of Thieves.

A brilliant day got off to a bad start. I slept in. The
meet was Bond Street
11am. I got out of bed around about that time of morning. It’s what I do best. I
rushed out, boxer shorts on back to front, my Morrissey flat-top, proper flat
and no top. Awaiting the tube I ran into an old friend who was going to the
game with a pack of mates I didn’t know. He’s a top DJ, a large chap thrown
into the bargain, and I made reference to this still being the case. It didn’t
go down well what with his mates not knowing me. I got blanked and they shifted
to the right as the train came in and I decided it was best to get in the left
carriage. It was empty. I felt empty, not a good feeling to piss someone off who
you haven’t seen in a while, especially on a Wembley Cup Final Day. I sat down.
Gazed up sheepishly and said this delicately to the person sat opposite.

‘Fuck me, it’s Stinky Turner.’

I said that because it was him. The front-man of the
Cockney Rejects. Stinky Turner aka Jeff Turner aka Jeff Geggus. From then on we
had a manic love-in of all things West Ham and his band and then me taking over
a bit. His son looked bored throughout but that was okay. I felt bad about
having to get off at Bond Street.
But that was where our meet was and anyway he was on route to hook up with
Trevor Brooking for a pitch-side interview. Before we parted Jeff asked me
where I was in the ground and then said he thought his brother was in that same
section.

Fast forward. I meet his brother at half time.

‘Alright Micky, I just ran into Jeff and his boy on the way
up here.’

Once again the conversation was like one between old school
mates. But I did have some history with Micky. The night he saved me and my
small band of mates from getting buried round the back of the Bridge House in CanningTown in March 1981.

Those were seriously violent days back then. At gigs and at
football. On Saturday West Ham had beaten Chelsea
in the old Division Two 4-0 and there was fighting everywhere. The next day my band
set off along the M4 to support Vice Squad at a pub in Bristol. Happy with the previous days result
and naively not appreciating any violent connection with BristolCity, I proudly wore my West Ham scarf.
We got there early. The locals didn’t dig my scarf. We had to take refuge in a
Marks & Spencer. I was told to tuck the scarf inside my jacket. That night
Vice Squad never showed. And neither did the PA. On the Tuesday they were
supporting the 4 Skins at The Bridge House in CanningTown.
We thought we’d show up and ask for an explanation and an apology. Before I was
picked up that night I was told this.

‘Don’t wear that fucking scarf.’

I didn’t bother to labour the point that CanningTown
was safe territory for claret and blue colours as emotions were tender after
what happened in Bristol.
So I left the scarf at home. On the night we never got to speak with Vice
Squad. We were the only non skinheads in a 300 strong pub. It didn’t help that
they thought we were Chelsea.
We drank furiously to accommodate the unsettling paranoia. As the toilets in
the pub were evidently a no go area for non skinheads, the five of us agreed
we’d have a piss where our van was parked, which was round the back of the pub
in a dimly lit anonymous dead end that was flanked either side by high corrugated
walls. To compound the problem, we were also afraid to leave the pub.

We eventually left after the gig, almost unable to walk
what with our bladders holding so much lager and then our small and desperate
collective got ambushed mid-piss; words directed clearly indicated that they
thought we were Chelsea taking liberties on their manor. It was messy on all
levels. With more than the odd boot in the face. Lying on the floor cut and bloody
and wearing piss drenched jeans, it was all quite depressing. More than that,
it looked like we were not going to make it home. In such moments you don’t get
overwhelmed in fear because quite simply, there isn’t the time. The only thing
I remember thinking was in how I wished I had my fucking West Ham scarf on.

And then when all looked beyond help a young Micky Geggus –
the only other non skinhead and a face we hadn’t seen all night – appeared wearing
a green flight jacket with sown on Motorhead patch. He parted the waves, an Oi
Moses, stopped the fighting, calmed the masses, got us in the van, climbed in
the back with us as they were going to brick the van once we got to the front
of the pub, and then ensured we were safely on the A13, homeward bound safe and
sound.

‘I normally have a good memory but don’t recall that night,’
Micky had said to me during half time at Wembley.

Not
sure if he was just being modest, but that was a night I wasn’t ever going to
forget in a hurry and the story was still surging through my head when I went
to take up my seat just after half time. When I got there I was asked what I
was smiling about. Surviving that night, I thought. But Tom Ince had scored for
Blackpool and it was 1-1. What lay ahead was a
grim second half of biting fingernails, gasping for breath, the desperate urge
to have a piss – going to the toilet would definitely mean Blackpool would
score – therefore also,the fear of piss
drenched jeans and all of thisaugmented
by the sickening taste of impending gloom and loss. It was all going wrong. Like
that night in the Bridge House. And then when all looked beyond help, Ricardo
Vaz Te – who we hadn't seen all afternoon – appeared and buried the ball into the roof of the net and I was soon able
to empty my bladder and feel the joy.

Sunday, 23 December 2012

We’re all starving like fuck
and a few doors down from Susan’s house is a takeaway –Cantonese and Peking Cuisine – and we go in
there and after a great deal of pissed up fucking about arguing, we go and
finally get loads of dishes that we’re going to share with her boyfriend Bob.
As I’ve taken control I do the ordering and shout up: Beef Chop Suey, Stir
Fried Chicken with Baby Corn, Sweet and Sour King Prawn Balls, Lemon Chicken –
I fucking love Lemon Chicken – Fried Mixed Veggies, Pancake Rolls and two
portions of Special Fried Rice. It worked out about eleven quid each not
including how post-order Christine decided she wanted a Banana Fritter which I
ordered and paid out of my own money and this also added time to our exit as
they did what needed doing to cook a fucking Banana Fritter. But who fucking
cares. The green light to paradise was still shining down on me and Christine.
We were gonna have some tonight. I was definitely a starving horse about to be
fed his oats. We went to Susan’s house and I was immediately introduced
to Bob and I tried to do the decent thing in a strangers house by trying to act
all together as well as convince the bloke that I hadn’t been shagging his bird
all afternoon. He shook my hand and seemed genuinely friendly enough even
though most small blokes who wear glasses usually are. I mean, by their very
presence they’re hardly equipped to go about their lives at war with us lot.
Most sensible small blokes all know that they just have to except their placing
in the general scheme of things and get on with it. Handle the piss takes if
and when it happens to be dished out in their direction and don’t get all self
important and try and make a name for yourself. It never ever works out in
their favour when they try to be Bruce Willis when they’ve had a few jars of
courage. Bob’s sort will always lose out. It’s the law of the jungle. So with
that said, I didn’t really have a problem telling him whereabouts I lived. I
might look like I’m from the CastleIsland but I’m not and I
think it probably relaxed him knowing that. Made him think that I’m not a
nutter.

Bob
ate more than any of us, although I didn’t do too bad. What fucked me off was
that Christine had made a right big fuss about getting a Banana Fritter after
we’d already ordered and had to wait an extra five minutes for her and now as
we’re sitting here all finished, I notice that she’s only taken one mouse sized
bite out of it, the very same Banana Fritter that’s slumped on the hard
shoulder against the piled up mountain which happens to be the rest of the food
she’s also failed to touch. What a fucking waste. I could have got the right
hump. But fuck it. Fact is, I have big plans. I need to stay cool here.

We
go to watch some old DVD which Bob tells me is his all time favourite film. It
was Shallow Grave. I’ve seen it
before and it was okay, but no way would you call it brilliant though as the
flatmates in it were all cunts and deserved to die. I fell asleep soon into the
film and when I awoke it had finished and little four-eyed Bob and sexy Susan
are dishing out the polite goodnights as they take out the plates and then
Susan came back with some bedding and we’re all rather foolishly saying
goodnight again and then in a sort of embarrassed silence me and Christine
Dean, while avoiding eye contact, make up a bed on the floor using the cushions
from the sofa and the two armchairs as a mattress. The door’s partially open,
letting in some light from the hallway, and I’m hoping that Bob and Susan won’t
have a problem leaving it on for a while as I like to see what I’m doing. As
most birds who know me and have been there will tell you.

We’re
still not speaking or acknowledging each other as we undress and then as soon
as we get under the quilt cover and our knees touch it instantly becomes the
signal for me to start and I reckon it was under two minutes when I had
Christine Dean pushed up on all fours arse high and I was in there licking and
fingering her in both holes. I was frantic. It was great. She was responding
well and I soon had my cock up her. It was total no nonsense. Mad and barmy. So
fucking brilliant as I try to truly appreciate this moment as here I am banging
into her. I’m pulling her shoulders back and battering her in and out as fast
as I can go but it seems that all the beer consumed during what has been a
brilliant day is now numbing all sensation and it’s not helping me achieve my
ultimate goal. I have to think quickly on my knees and so I pull out my cock
and stick two fingers up her and now that I’m lubricated by her juices I’m onto
opening up her arse again and seeing that there’s still no vocal opposition, I
quickly seize on the moment and stick my long fat cock up there and it feels so
much better, it really does, and now I’m possessed and I’m banging into her so
hard, so fast, and I’m totally oblivious to her surrendered shape as I just
keep looking down, concentrating hard on the visible portion of the rod of my
cock going in and out of her arse all mechanically like a piston from George
Stephenson’s Rocket or something and I think I can hear her acknowledge my good
work, the work of my rocket, my best endeavour in pissed up circumstances and I
go and try raise the game further, speed up the ride, I’m now slapping her tiny
tight arse cheeks as this 7-4 favourite continues to slut it on home full of
the thrust and speed of her brilliant rider – the dirty cow’s fucking loving it
more than I am –and I’m well clear of
the chasing pack and I’m in such good health here despite all the beer consumed
during what has been a brilliant day and the dark thoughts that now make
themselves known to me as I continue on with the job are dealt with as I’m on
such a rush that this is at long last really happening for me again, I am back,
Jim Best, well and truly back on the saddle, and on and on I continue to push
myself faster and further than I’ve ever been before and I’m knackered but
getting faster all the time and I try not to get hypnotised by the speed of my
cock sorting out this tidy anal slut and on we go and I’m wondering how long I
can keep this up for but I’m wanting a finish now cos I’m feeling knackered so
to add to the thrill I’m now knocking off a few years off of her, turning her
into a sweet fifteen year old school slut who has crept downstairs and let me
in through the back door with ma and pa oblivious to what I’m doing to their
loving innocent daughter who just loves it shoved right up her, always keenly
begs for it up the arse and this drives me to new magnificent heights and I
want to shout out and let the world know how good this all is, but I’m in Bob’s
house and you can’t do that sort of thing cos he’s got a kid up there and
anyway there’s no way I can have him getting images, having a sneaky wank to
our dirty noises all carefully so Susan doesn’t know what he’s really doing
over on his side of the bed, so I copy Christine and keep my volume on mute and
instead I home in on the beautiful sight of the receiver and then incredibly I
realise that I haven’t even got her tits out yet, so I waste no time and push
her T-shirt aggressively up to her shoulders which she plays up on and tries to
resist while I continue to pump into her and then I keep the game going and
reach under and rip her small tits out from her tight bra and I have a small
grab with my left hand while the right sees to clutching a fistful of her hair,
pulling her head back so that I can work my way up there another inch or so as
she jerks back grunting away and I reckon I really could just go on like this
all night if I really wanted to and I’m just keeping my concentration going
working myself up for big explosion and then incredibly, from out of nowhere,
I’m registering some negative resistance going on here and it’s not in the
script either and therefore it ain’t going down well and it all gets worse cos
the fucking bitch is actually right at this very moment telling me to stop, and
I lose my way, confused, as I’m dropped from such a great height, confused
until the emotion is replaced by complete outrage as I can now see clearly that
there’s stewards on the track waving red flags and trying to fucking well call
off the race as I’m about to cross the finishing line and she really is telling
me to stop, this is no joke, JIM, ARGGH, STOP! ARGGH, STOP! PLEASE JIMMEE. ARGGH,
STOP! PLEE EASE! ARGGH, NO. NO JIM. JIM, JIMMEE! NO! PLEASE JAMES STOP! and
having hit the alarm name, calling me James, I appreciate in how this is
seriously mad, not nice, and she’s now uttering her pleases in some honourable
controlled half muted way as if she’s now trying not to bring this apparent out
of the blue disaster what’s going on here to the attention of those above us
and I look up from what was once the gifted magic of sex and now I can see and
hear that she’s crying, pure concentrated devastation, and I just want to
continue, finish the race, the job, bury my rich seed up her arse, but she’s
really fucking going mental here, sobbing badly, and I go and pull up abruptly
and before I know what to do next I go humiliatingly soft and as I do I fall
off the saddle.

At exactly the same time I impact the floor, the hall light
sinisterly goes out and now we’re both in total darkness and initially I’m happy
because Christine can’t see my face and then I’m wondering if Bob and Susan
really have heard any of this and I’m laying on my back and I know that
Christine has moved well away from me and she then goes and confirms this as
she pulls almost the whole of the quilt her way and for the first time in my
life I genuinely feel like I’ve just committed rape.

Naked and lying on my back in the dark and with the broken
whimpering to my left continuing to haunt me, it really does feel so horrific.

The water board had been
gathering outside in numbers like an enemy ready to attack. And then attack, they
did. Opening up hole after hole after hole all along street, creating misery
and chaos in order to prevail good clean running water. They were, in a heavy-handed
big ugly way, replacing all the ancient Victorian pipes with big new long yellow
ones. And despite a few white feathered protests it soon became clear that all the
pipes really were going to have to be replaced. There was no getting around it.
Only under it. With just two days to Christmas to go, the scenic view was not one
of peace and goodwill. For wherever you gazed there was numerous deep holes surrounded
on all sides by mountains of dirt and fractured concrete. It was all rather
grim.

Was this what The Beatles meant by 4000 holes in Blackburn,
Lancashire in A Day In The Life? thought Tom Barnaby while watching the workman
dig deep, Tom hidden from view like a secret sniper from a corner flap of
curtain in an overhead side-room. Outside an unfriendly wind blew against the
wobbly window with a vengeance – ‘It’ll fall out one of these days,’ she always
liked to say – and the rain fired down, icy cold and diagonal.

‘Where are you, what you doing?’ came her accusing voice from
the adjacent bedroom.

There was a short spasm of silence.

‘I was looking out the window,’ Tom then said, still
somewhat startled but happily drowning in the spirit of honesty. And then he
added: ‘It’s carnage out there. There’s nowhere for folk to park a car. I don’t
envy them workman, mind.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What with all that wind and blistering rain. Not a day to
be outside.’

Those words should have comforted Emily. Because there she
was, tucked up all warm and safe in bed. But she wasn’t happy. She wasn’t
feeling very well and with Christmas around the corner this was not good.

‘My teeth hurt,’ was where it all began the night before
the night before.

Hurting teeth was a major problem as Emily was in fear of
the dentist. But by the stroke of midnight from when the first tickling of pain
began its conquering of her lower jaw, her teeth soon became the least of her
worries. For Emily, the pain of
toothache had brought home some friends, many a familiar stranger to her. Along
came a very sore throat (throat cancer), a never-ending headache (brain tumour)
and she also now had a twisted stomach (bowel cancer).

‘Oh Tom, what on earth am I going to do? What if my teeth still
hurt Christmas day? I won’t be able have turkey and roast beef. Oh I feel so rotten.’

‘We’ll eat turkey and roast beef alright,’ said Tom Barnaby.

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Because I am.’

‘But you don’t have teeth that hurt.’

A routine silence prevailed. But was soon punctured.

‘You’ll
be fine,’ he said.

You could always rely on Tom Barnaby to say how everything
would be fine. Her husband was a happy go lucky chap who got up early without complaint
every morning to go out and deliver milk. He had grown up without ever having a
problem with his teeth. Tom put this down to the fact that ever since he was a
small boy he had always eaten a crunchy apple and drank a glass of cold milk every
day. All that calcium over the years had looked after him.

‘Why don’t you ever get teeth issues?’ she would bemoan.

‘Because I drink milk every day I guess,’ he would reply.

‘You know how much I hate the taste of milk,’ would be the
end of the conversation.

Milk – how the hell did she
ever end up with a milkman? Waking her up at 3am every bleeding morning? Simple
answer. When they married – thirty-two years ago – Tom wasn’t a milkman. He was
deputy manager at a car showroom on the London Road.
It paid well. It was like they lived a better life in them days. Then fate
introduced him to voluntary redundancy and soon after that he was delivering
milk. His mate Gene O’Dare got him the job. Put in a good word and the
interview was a formality. So that was what Tom Barnaby did for a living. He
sailed about the town in the small hours on his float, enjoying the
tranquillity of dawn, the first peeps from stirring birds, the occasional stray
fox and morning jogger. Tom liked his own company while at work. But sometimes
too much time on your own plays tricks with your brain. He would often return
home exhausted and spout the most inexplicable things. Like for instance when
he came into the house this morning and said:

‘It’s arctic monkeys out there?’

‘You mean brass monkeys?’

‘Do I?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did I say?’

‘Arctic instead of brass.’

‘Oh.’

He then scratched his head and put on the kettle.

Tom always liked to make a cup of tea and to prepare food
for his wife. Especially right now, when she needed him most. He felt bad that
Emily was feeling poorly and he wished there was something he could do about
her sore teeth and also, her constant worrying. Emily did like to worry. Well,
no. She didn’t like worrying, she didn’t enjoy worrying, it was just something
she did. Out of habit. Emily worried about money when they had money, she
worried about money when they didn’t have as much money and she worried about
what it would be like if they didn’t have any money at all. Emily and Tom – homeless
and starving and holding hands in the icy cold. Then she would worry about how
perhaps they wouldn’t actually be holding hands. How they wouldn’t be holding
hands as they were no longer on speaking terms on account of being bitter, broke,
homeless. Who would hold her hand then instead of Tom? No one. She would be on
the streets, alone and hungry. Without a hand to hold!

Tom Barnaby liked to think he never worried about money.
That such a worry was too exhausting. No. Good health was the most important
thing. Without good health then you had cause to worry. Tom felt that it was
all her frantic worrying about being worried all the time that brought about
her many complaints. But then again, he was surely no expert. Maybe Emily was
right to be worried. He could have easily found another car showroom and gone
on to become a manager, what with his track record. Had he bottled the
challenge and gone for an easy route instead? And where exactly were the
loyalties in milk? What about the redundancies that every milkman in the depot
had been fretting about since Doug Francis was made redundant in July? Others
would follow. That was the truth. It was only a matter of time.

Perhaps he should worry too? She always said that she’d
feel much happier if she knew that her husband was a worrier as well. How he
might empathise with her in a more comforting manner. Maybe he should do some
over-the-top worrying on Christmas Day. Sort of like a surprise present.
Complain about climate change, how we as the dominant species had done serious
damage to the longevity of life on the planet and what is the point of being
born in the first place what with all the pain and suffering in the world. That
sort of thing. But what if his worrying backfired and made Emily more of a
nervous wreck? No. He would carry on the same.

Every Christmas Day they walked the ten minutes to the pub
to feast on the Christmas Roast. And Tom was certain that his wife would be
fine come the day. He was that confident that all would be well, that the next
morning he began to whistle a happy little tune and he maintained it throughout
his round. The tune he whistled was a song called Mistletoe and Wine by Cliff Richard. And then an hour or so later,
while still whistling, as he headed back to the depot, it began to thickly flake
with snow. Tom then wondered where exactly could he buy some mistletoe. Perhaps
he could get some at Marks and Spencer? They might sell some next to the fruit
and nuts.

By the time Tom made his way home he was tired and even
though there had been all that rain the previous day the snow was settling
fast, over two inches now, he was easily sidetracked from thoughts of
purchasing some mistletoe. He liked the simple cleansing silence of snow and it
had really come down fast, the roads layered in a thick white crust. He thought
about the men down them holes in a few hours, shivering and shovelling out snow.
Tom looked forward to getting indoors and making a cup of tea. He wondered if
Emily would want a hot drink, what with her hurting teeth. He decided instead
that he would make her a tepid peppermint tea and stir in some crushed
ibuprofen without her knowing. That should do the trick. Keep the wolf of pain
at bay. For tomorrow was Christmas Eve and Tom was certain that the surprise presents
that he had purchased for his wife – a funbag of blank video cassettes, a pink
stressball, a Philippa Gregory novel and some purple jewelled earrings – would
most definitely take her mind off of her toothache.

Sunday, 2 December 2012

Originally
published in 1966, this was the third Ann Quin book I have read after Berg and Tripticks. Three’s got a
poetic sexual eeriness throughout. Where the book lacks the drive that Berg had, it replaces with the tragic
beauty of a young voice chasing something out of reach and knowing nothing will
change. The last paragraph delivers the inevitable but five pages from the end
is the most spine-chilling narration. ‘How easy for a body to drift out, caught
up in a current, and never be discovered, or for anyone to ever be certain.’ That
was Ann Quin writing about her own death in 1973 seven years before it happened.
She had clearly always decided that her end was predetermined. Heartbreaking.

9. Judas Pig – Horace
Silver

This
brutal and absorbing book of East End gangster
life is a long out of print Do-Not Press publication from 1994. Was one of a few
superb charity bookshop finds of mine this year and a gruesome read. Horace
Silver’s writing gets you sucked in so far you get blown out the other side. Not
a massive fan of gangster books and always thought The Long Firm by Jake Arnott was Charlie Richardson’s My Manor meets The Orton Diaries. Which it was. Judas Pig is the real deal, well written, uncompromising. Been told
could get good money for this book as much sought after. Not surprised. But I don’t
care too much for money…the book’s now mine and not going on Ebay.

8.Tales from the Two Puddings – Eddie Johnson

Tales is an East
End contrast on so many levels to Judas Pig even though Eddie Johnson did know the Kray's and many
other dark personalities in the 1960s. This piece of non fiction is by the
father of Matt Johnson from The The. Eddie Johnson ran the Two Puddings pub in Stratford. It is a social
document, a one way conversation from a man reminiscing about a past that was
both violent and full of loving. Eddie’s real passion was entertaining and
looking after people, to have fun. A most important gift. He claims to have put
on the first ever disco and certainly the pub was a major live venue in the
early 60s. The Who, Van Morrison, The Small Faces all played there. Eddie
Johnson is a socialist and a humanist. What’s there not to like? Was gutted when
I heard he had been book signing in Newham Bookshop on the Barking Road before West Ham/Sunderland
and I had missed out on meeting him.

7.The Buddha Bar – Joseph Ridgwell

A
third writer on the spin from the East End. What
I liked so much about this book was that it sounded like the voice of a family
member. All my brothers and sisters have travelled far and wide while I have
maintained a package holiday existence at a cost. Each chapter is like a
postcard home, honest, warm but mocking me in how much I really have missed out
on being young and exploring beyond the end of the road. The narrator puts what
money he has as well as all of his dreams, love and energy into running a bar
in Thailand.
A joint venture. But does trusting in someoneyou love(in this case a wildcat
called Mindi) make you blind and is trust a weak trait to maintain? I don’t
think so. ‘Domestic or international?’ is the question at the end of the book.
I, of course would only answer, domestic. Ridgwell would never settle for such
a word.

6.Skagboys – Irvine Welsh

This
brilliant prequel to Trainspotting is
a big book. As published this year only in hardback, not a great travel
companion. Like carrying around a brick, a literary breeze block. When I say ‘travel’
I am of course referring to local transport. I remember Kindle idiots sniggering
to each other on the bus as I split my brick open and broke into a read. But these
moments did have me wondering if Renton’s
handwritten journals were displayed like that on a Kindle. Soon found out the
answer. Just regular italic font. Hardly the same impact as reading the actual
book. Suckers. I always have the last laugh.

5.Dark Corners of the Land – Adelle Stripe

I
was never into poetry until I read Sky
Ray Lolly by Fiona Pitt-Kethley back in the 1990s. The poems French
Connection, Sky Ray Lolly, Wankers and A Sunday Afternoon – all a kick in the
bollocks new territory for me. I think some of those poems shaped the way I
began to think and then write. I have memories of friends who when I began to
try and write suddenly became non friends, a elitist crew of self-indulgent
readers of Penguin Classics who, to quote Siouxsie Sioux were ‘condescending
from on high’. And I would think to myself ‘go and read the poem Wankers, Joe and
feel the joy’. The best poetry I have read since Sky Ray was recent. Last month. Dark
Corners of the Land. The poems Murmur, Last Utero, Self Burial and Penny
Dreadful stand out for me as the Champions League qualifiers who would easily
be a match against the four Pitt-Kethley’s I mentioned. Adelle Stripe’s book
was also my first taste of Blackheath Books. The tea card in mine is of an
Artic Skua in flight. It flies into my mind warning of what is to come when I
turn the page –much rural death. Sounds
depressing but it’s proper good.

4.Last Days of the Cross – Joseph Ridgwell

The
only author to have two books in the Top Ten. Too right. I have never met
Joseph Ridgwell but in this crazy world of meeting strangers when on the piss
and down a dark alley of social networking it’s been a real pleasure. And his
full of life passion via a few email exchanges is finely replicated in this
book. I used ‘full of life’ deliberately of course. Heavily influenced by John
Fante’s alter ego Arturo Bandini, here we find Joe in Sydney, up against the world and struggling
for money, love and the ability to write one word. Painful familiar territory. Unsentimental
and often very funny, Ridgwell makes you turn the page like a maniac while also
encouraging a constant return to the fridge for another cold beer. Genius.

3. Last Exit to Brooklyn – Hubert Selby Jr

Have
read a long time ago and when I saw the film thought it had delivered, matched
the book, emotionally and violently. But in June I got a pre-trail John Calder
hardback with intact dustcover for £3.50 in a charity bookstore in Devon (a serious result) and read again. The book versus
film wins 5-1 having been 4-0 up at half time, confirming to me how the page
will always be more powerful than the screen. To illustrate this point, what
happened to Tralala and even Harry Black gets you round the throat more in
Selby’s words than watching the same acts portrayed on the big screen. Brutal and
beautiful. If you haven’t read the book recently or since seeing the film years
ago, return.

2.The Panopticon – Jenni Fagan

Young
Anais Hendricks knows they watch her as she outstares the moon. Right from the
beginning this damaged wonderful creation marks her territory. You are either
with her or you put the book down and forget she exists. The latter’s what Anais
would be expecting. This is a spectacular
debut, a triumph out of damage. This book should be cemented in top place because
of the cool self awareness and self determination of this important voice. A
voice that no matter what she may or may not have done, screams fuck it, I am
not caving in here. And any narrator that raises a fat smile for wanting a
two-headed pickled baby in a jar was always going to be hard to beat. But Anais
knows this world just isn’t fair and her awareness of this truth must prevail.
That’s the reason why I cannae put her top.

1.The Voyeur – Alain Robbe-Grillet

Read
this mesmerised on a beach in Crete in October;
a seaweed strewn beach that resembled the bottom of a hamster cage. A lesson in
descriptive writing and how to confuse the reader but not irritate. That is the
gift of this book. The Voyeur was my
first experience of Alain Robbe-Grillett. Mathias, a watch salesman, arrives on
a island with a mission to sell a suitcase of watches to the locals, but while
he is there a girl is found at the base of a rock face, she had been raped and
murdered, but the questions pile on top of one another thick and fast until at
the end I am asking – did Mathias even go to the island at all, hire a bike, leave
cigarettes butts at the scene that could implicate him to the murder, did he
really kill the girl, did a girl even die, exist, did he even smoke, wake up
that morning etc or was Mathias a young imaginative Mathias in a room all along
struggling to draw a gull while his mind roamed wild?The answer is none of this matters. Looking
forward to reading again.